Wednesday, April 30, 2008

My Favourite Hang-Out in the City of Accra

You have no end of choices from tiny, hip-hugging chairs around a short, round and wooden table, cushion-crowned, shiny-steel-legged, tall barstools and cosy couple-booths of glass and wood, with open facades and soft, comfortable leather (but straight-back) couches which accommodate the walls of the inner room. The closed end of the inner room displays drums, organs, guitars and microphones, the soul of Wednesday and Friday evening Happy Hour.

The glass door to the anteroom swings open to the bar. It’s like a balcony of a very little house, with crystal drinking glasses are hung in the open windows, and black, blue and brown bottles and silver and black dispensers stand on the bar-top or wall shelves. Little yellow lights descend softly from above the bar and reflect off the dangling glassware and the big mirrors which plate the walls behind the bartenders.

The inner room of the saloon is dimly lit from its green-blue-red-and-yellow glass-dome part of the ceiling. It’s not for certain whether they were seeking the cathedral effect or some gothic sentiment seized the designer when they got to that part of the ceiling. There are two TV sets in the tavern; a smaller screen is fixed to the end of the anteroom, and a huge screen stands at the end of the inner room.

On football night, working people pour into the quiet, little scene with colour and sound. The sneaky suspicion is that they aren’t really enamoured of the beautiful Bloody Mary or pleasant Pina Colada. They are waiting out the homeward traffic which has jammed as thick as seeds. You can’t get to Tema, Sakumono, Adenta or Achimota or any middle-class estate in the City of Accra before the Champions League match begins. And this bar is such a beautiful and cosy place.

Sunday, April 27, 2008

Mystery Mores - Poetry

there is something
i have done,
i could never let anyone know.
might shock your blameless mind,
and send you to hypocritical highs.
a deep regret for doing
it at all,
soaks my soul
for thirty dark daily seconds.
but not doing
it at all,
and missing
the secret thrill
it brought, and brings
me every day,
may then have been the bigger sin.
the pull of mystery,
will not excite,
the way true knowledge will.
so as i think to it again,
my deeper guilt should run,
for not concluding
this affair
at much an earlier age.

Friday, April 25, 2008

The Women in Jacket-over-Friday-Wear in the City of Accra

It’s Friday again, in the City of Accra. The women, fetchingly invested, are graceful goddesses on their knees – irresistible! These days, they’re meticulously making up and wantonly working out. But that is scant reason for all the glam and glitter.

It is the maddening manner in which they do up in their fancy Friday wear. Artistic African fabric made up into creative clothing; long curvaceous, flowing skirts, missing the enchanted city floors by half a whisker. There’s the happy reason, I think.

The lengthy fluid lines, the mirage or truth of perfectly formed, longitudinal legs and the tight, girth-hugging wrap is all such amazing art. The lines cascade into open, flirtatious wings and tails; sweeping here, sweeping there, capturing the eye of the lustful looker. Solid statuesque, but the body-magic is not complete!

Each pulsating torso is beautifully bundled up in a winsome jacket in black or grey or other colours. It finds fine form and figure from flowing over well-toned arms, throbbing bulbous bust (carefully parted, here, not to hide or hold back candid cleavage), firm or rounded belly (who cares?) slim-fitting or love-handle waist, and terminates in wild imaginings around the swinging hips.

Modernity and style are running wild on Fridays, in free and flagrant femininity, in the City of Accra. Who is working is not watching. Who is watching can’t be working! So who’s watching, and who’s working? :-). Truly and honestly pleasing charm!

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

It Finally Rained Hard in the City of Accra

It’d been threatening for many weeks now. The rain tumbled down on the City of Accra in the dead of the night. The pendulous switch between the suppressed, distant hum, the sharp, roof-top rap and the warm, enveloping drizzle hiss, strummed narco-notes on the strings of the reposing mind. It shoved wake-up time backwards, for rainy dawn is an enticing woman (or man :-)), and cloaked the breaking daylight in gloom from falsifying folds of gravid clouds.

The grief of the rain always clears the air, literally. I could see the nearly empty streets for many miles ahead . Very few people had braved the morning’s chilly mantle. My hands desired to stretch and touch the glittering life crystals that rendered vivid every colour, shape and sound. The breeze was crisp, and it hung lightly in open space, as the first kisses of golden rays were weakly blown by the cloud-concealed sun.

Central Accra rudely shouted “Good morning” with a shower of muck on my windscreen. Snapping out of my other world, I saw banks of mud, rushing rivulets, yawning composts of dead leaves and twigs, and filthy cars – flagrantly filthy cars. My febrile fear came true, when Joy FM confirmed that the City of Accra had suffered floods and damage in many of her thick and bulging parts.

But it’d been threatening for many weeks, really. The rain is beautiful, the rain is ugly, the rain is as where you are, in the City of Accra.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Dusk from a High Building in the City of Accra

The dusks are calm in the centre of the City of Accra. The one-thousand-strong throng is long gone home. The suffocating streets are now airy, free and semi-deserted. But it is not the ground I cast my writer’s eye to. They sky is playing seductive sport with the sable sky and a razzle-dazzle of lights: blue, gold, red and white.

The birds are surfing on the twilight breeze in kindred pairs :-), and settling on highest trees or masts. Suddenly, it hits me, that there are more trees at dusk in the City of Accra than at high noon. They sway here and there in that pleasant, salubrious green which you’d imagine for a rich country or an earthly paradise. The ocean stalks the shore, a quiet but menacing blue; intense, watching, waiting to pounce!

Everything that moves is aroused in an easygoing, rhythmic flow; birds, trees, cars and the sea; buildings, humans, lights and the sky. It is close approaching a natural balance, tasted, loved, smelled, felt, only touched from the rarefied air of an upper floor of a high city-centre building.

Monday, April 21, 2008

Security my Donkey

Heritage Tower, Ridge. The tallest building in the City of Accra? I have fascinating yarns about pretty, forbidding women in its stodgy, deviant lifts, the queer nasal taste of unwashed humanity and the loathsome car park.

There, a shrimp of a security guard jumped over a dwarf wall (almost his height) near the ATM, where I was standing. In utter disbelief, I preached “I didn’t imagine you would do that!” The insane imp thought I was applauding his Olympic feat, and encouraged me with gold-medal vanity, “You can also do it.”

Of course, I was struck speechless. What do you say to a dwarfish dunce you have employed to keep thieves away, when the villainous employee is showing them the easiest way in? I realised he had to have come through the unending chaos of cars behind the violated fence. I hurried off to try all the doors of mine, taking my time terribly in order that he’d see my intended insult.

Then, I crept up the stairs into the building, counting every step in turn like a true gentleman should.

Sunday, April 20, 2008

The Hunger Strike - Poetry

This comes from the collection SERIOUSLY SPEAKING, the last collection I was working on until I hit an almighty writer's block. Enjoy :-)

The Hunger Strike

sitting alone,
with clenched fist
on chisel cheek,
glaring gamely
into the distance.

if last month’s
midnight snack
tasted half as good
as you screamed,

why didn’t i see you again?

Friday, April 18, 2008

Accra's Night Pulse

It still happens, sometimes, that a group of callow Accraians glides into the streets, and sets the night to music. It is the same centuries-old spontaneous pulse which throbs on the softening city air, and spreads carnal tension through your rousing intimates :-). The fluttering, the cadence, ecstatic mood and fine, flirtatious rhythms carry a tuneful, mellow mood to the blessed listener. The music is Djama (I've not seen it spelt :-)

A sweet rhapsody it is, to hear them tell tales of love and war, bravery and treachery, beauty and folly in the off-beat pitch, held and dropped with careless aim in that mirth-provoking, amateur clef.

The strokes and beats are quick and strong, acoustically modulated to put the youthful tone in the muscle, and flatter the dancing body. They chant and yodel in absolute choruses and whispered descants; clapping their hands and twanging improvised instruments to create the sound of cymbals, drums, whistles, congas.

Even from afar, the rapturous accent makes it easy to imagine the deep-sea amusement. Going nearer, the music barrels around you on a surreal scale, and you’re sucked into the singing ... dancing ... perspiration ... giddiness. It plays on till early in the morning, and it does not cost you anything.

Thursday, April 17, 2008

The Cinema is coming to Accra

Countless cosy cinemas with fancy names like Rex, Roxy, Rivoli and Globe japanned the face of Accra some twenty years ago. They were all built like the saloons in the wild-west movies, only with wider doors and cement walls in cream or green or yellow.

The doors swung open to yield a yawning yard of hard, concrete floor inch-packed with collapsible metal chairs. The far-end wall, behind a seemingly purposeless dais, held a wide wooden white board – crude screen for the cine projector.

Outside, the brightly coloured posters of the stars of the day were Blu-tacked on the weather-beaten display boards. Mean machines like Stallone and Schwarzenegger muscled for meagre space with kung-fu magicians like Chang and Chang (aren’t they all Chang? :-) and Lee. Thin-air-clad video vixens appealed with sultry smile or supple skin that electrified the evening air, and seduced many a homecoming mind into a money-spilling voyeur.

The ancient cinema of Accra was big, big business. On non-video nights, the chairs were neatly stacked in the mouldy crannies of the room, and the open floor, lacquered in bright lights, became a steamy dance floor. The open-top design flung the reckless music into the resting night, attracting the teeming horde into the cinema.

Church flock, churchlike folds and associations held meetings in the cinemas with the more-equal animals haunting the dais (utility after all). It was a shamelessly sensual scene to see convention goer glide grim-faced past the scandal-selling seductress on the devil’s display board.

Suddenly, the cinemas disappeared. The bounty of the market was lost to home videos; churches and shops took over. But I’m told the Accra Mall will open a cinema shortly, and glossy posters of sinfully sexy houris will appear once again, and richly defile every bare wall in the city of Accra ;)

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Island of Tired Truths

Last weekend, the solid ground moved unsportingly from under my firmly-fastened feet, when I was looking smug and feeling so tres bien. This left me twisting and turning all night long like the roiling ocean.

I saw twelve tortured months tee off backward and then forward, over and over again, like an infant's Viewmaster. But in the poignant chaos I found a fickle, floating island full tired truths and foggy philosophies.

Nothing is as it clearly seems at first. How can you be so ecclesiastically certain that you are right, when it might be Your Royal Highness who's hanging upside down with the whole world standing upright? Experience is a poor guide; emotion a cheap and deceptive compass. Patience requires no map, for she rarely loses her way.

I've beaten my way back in more happy ways than one. I really like it here, and I'm not going back!

Monday, April 14, 2008

Tears from the Curse - Poetry

Sorry, guys, but normal service cannot resume today. So, I must still express my feelings with poetry.


These are the days of the curse
Love’s not better, never worse

These are the tears from my heart
And here are the pieces torn apart

These are the little things I feel
That show that I’m not made of steel

These are the eyes you saw right through
But then, your feelings were not true

These are the echoes of my life
And here is my blood on your knife

These are the streets to walk alone
A journey through the great unknown.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Untitled - Poetry

This morning, I am posting poetry, my first love. I have expressed and understood this life on the wings of poetry. I don't really intend to post my poetry on this blog, but, at this moment, poetry is what best captures my confused mood. It is untitled (because the rawness defies a title) and it comes from the collection, SAMSARA. I wrote it 9 years ago,and, this morning, I feel the same way I did 9 years ago. :-(


What is so golden
About falling in love?
When all it brings is heartache
And wakeful nights till dawn
Birdsongs are no longer sweet
Smiles are sharp things to avoid
Some girl’s loose laughter
Painful road to jealousy

A man is sick
In head and in heart
To think love so simple
To break his helpless heart

Just because my feelings don’t scream
Does not mean they are not hurt

Loving this deeply
Does not make me silly

Smiling so sweetly
Only hides my furious heart

Don’t nobody come to me
Go away, I’m Dead!

Friday, April 11, 2008

Oh, for a Park in the City of Accra!

Driving through the Tetteh Quarshie Interchange, playing Habib Koité’s Ma Ya, I found the emotional space to look out and see the verdant grass and infant trees sprouting up in beautiful, even intervals. The thick greenness with shiny surface crystals of dew and sprinkler water reflected the golden rays of the rising sun, and gave the thrilling promise of a frisky Friday.

It nudged me softly that I’d been poking about for a leisure park in the city of Accra. A quiescent acre of stone sculptures of great former residents, skittish fountains, inedible fish (not frogs) in ponds and restrooms (Please!) :). I should like to have good, strong benches to sit on (make it of wood or concrete, I don’t mind). And I imagine vast fields of velvety grass to spread a rug and lie on. The trees will be gigantic; leaves and branches verdure, breezy, saying come sleep here if you please. Now, that’s something of a park. One with good security would be great, so that the many Accraians who choose to be homeless (or are really without a home) will not pursue the primal pleasure of another mass sleeping experience :)

It would be nice to step out of the concrete jungle and the blazing furnace into the cool recesses of a park with a bottle of water and a big interesting book. A clever chance to forget the heartbreaking shortcomings of the city of Accra; to escape the daily puzzles and, for an hour, or more, spread out luxuriantly or curl up snugly in such idyllic extravagance.

There was Kinbu Gardens many years ago, when I was still a little boy. Driving with my father and siblings around its circular fringes, it seemed as much a park as not. But we never gained entry, and we got the quiet understanding that it was a very adult place :)

The Efua Sutherland Children’s Park is named for a very great playwright. However, it’s an empty, walled city space with pockets of sundry-hued, grass-like sprouts and a miniature rail network. It’s not open on ordinary days, and something is eating up the mighty mahogany trees.

The Accra Zoo was a beautiful place, depending on what you were looking for. It did not boast of the prettiest or sweetest-smelling birds or cats; reptiles or ruminants, but it soothingly smothered the city racket, put mellowing blinds on the sun’s bright eye and swept a holy hand of brilliant breeze under its sky-screening foliage. It gave no grass to sit on, but those hard benches yielded memory-erasing comfort, if the donkey was fast asleep (for I’ve found its startling bray pierces the still air more loudly that the restrained roar of the conceited lion). Now, there is no zoo in the city of Accra.

No parks, no zoos, no clean and quiet beaches, not many libraries, no pools, no city squares. Accra, are you trying to make us go insane?

Thursday, April 10, 2008

Kwame Nkrumah Circle

Very early in the morning, Circle (as its name has been crudely sawn-off to) is a calm and tranquil plaza with a silent, sleeping fountain, fenced lawns (I think) of thinning brown grass, metal railings around pedestrian walkways and wide-open, potholed car parks where scores of big and mini buses are tightly ranged like sleeping seals.

Circle has many wooden-box-and-cardboard shacks – cramped homes at night and vibrant stores in the day, deviously deriding the tall office buildings standing sentry all around them. Parts of the pavement are rudely reserved by their homeless owners as sleeping bunks or see-through bathrooms :)

The hustled horde comes hurrying through at hell’s hour. Cars, buses, big trucks and unrecognisable vehicles grope blindly and harum-scarum like a flock of senseless sheep following whatever looks like them and moves in front of them. Office workers in transit, louts and loafers scouting for a half-chance to commit a daylight crime and screaming vendors wrestle one another for the narrow strip of pavement that remains passable.

When the sun shunts directly overhead, this is the most sultry, sticky and stupefying place to be in this wicked world :) At this tedious time, beauty and politeness are beaten back and all that remains is what is in, and what emits from, the ugly belly of the city of Accra.

Creatures of the night are the fiendish features of a dark Circle, ghosting and floating about in the form of muggers and thieves, drunken or 'high' semi-humans, vile, nauseating, self-denying she-devils pretending to have something attractive to sell :) and perspiring hustlers with nifty gadgets, without boxes, going for a song.

Cars drive by with windows rolled up, and pedestrians assume a bullfrog puff to appear more menacing than they really are. Commuters stand in endless miles of fetid frustration wishing for a bus or car or bike or horse to come and take them home, away from Circle.

In its splendour and squalor, Circle hosts big-company headquarters, banks, nightclubs, restaurants and chopbars, churches, petrol stations and a multi-purpose garden paradoxically christened ‘Holy’. Maybe it is a terribly great idea that it’s lost the name of Kwame Nkrumah :)

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

Sunday Afternoon Delight at Sakumono

A and B, my married friends, invited me over last Sunday. We had a swell time watching English football and baking a chocolate cake. B gathered the groceries while A and I flirted with cardiac seizure as banal Boro held the greatest team in the world to a gloomy draw. It was an awful start to the afternoon, but well in line with the bilious clouds that hang dark and low outside, pregnant with perverse intent. When the game was over, it rained heavily in the kitchen.

It all came down in thick-coming fancies! Dozens of wonderfully-weighted white eggs, spices to snuff you silly, nutmeg, eclectic essences, vanilla, strawberry, bars of chocolate. It snowed the purest castor sugar and milk; mealy, soft flour and lip-smacking, finger-licking butter. But it remained dry outdoors. The cool afternoon dragged along slowly, and there was no need to hurry up. Packing the sterile mixer back into its box, we beat and mixed and creamed slowly and gently by human hand, splashing the walls, floor and ceiling while seeking the candid consistency.

We were all awash with streaks of the luscious mixture in the face, on the corners of the lips, on the arms, necks; everywhere the sneaky paste had gone :). The apron effect, that magical moment when, with the strings tied behind you, you feel you could cook heavenly delights out of anything or straw, glowed in the kitchen as teasing and horseplay grew a little wild. We caught the chocolate just in time. Sitting in a ceramic bowl in boiling water on the gas, it had melted and was creeping and curdling to a swarthy shade.

When the chocolate was saved, and the mix baking in the preheated oven, we sat back to a low logic movie about satanic cults, prosperity and the power of the Catholic God. As evil gained the upper hand, we amused ourselves with all the sweetness wafting out of the oven, trying to make out all the individual flavours, and putting words to them. In the end, good prevailed in the movie, and we shared a big bottle of coke with the most toothsome chocolate cake ever baked on a Sunday afternoon in Sakumono.

When B announced her plan to bake a pie, I thought it best to go, for it was approaching ten p.m. If you’re still wondering, the greatest team in the world is Manchester United! :)

Monday, April 7, 2008

Another World in the City of Accra

Today, I wish I were married. There is no curious story behind this wish; nothing to reveal. I just think that the company would be good.

On my early morning drive to work, I saw an art vendor bring out his basic illustrations to display just a whisker from the road. He was in the middle of a grating conversation with the next vendor, who was arranging sallow apples in black plastic crates with his stone-and-charcoal fingers. I’d already taken a rueful eyeful, and was looking to turn away in quest for softer aspects of the Accra half-light. Maybe I’d catch giddying glimpses of the scrupulously-scrubbed, meticulously made-up working woman in Accra :) But I found a weirdly arresting sight.

As violence scurried out of the missing-toothed mouth of the art vendor, his arms moved in gentle circles as he wiped each crude artwork tenderly as if they were his children. In a quick move I still can’t interpret (it was crude, but it showed care) he sprayed a wide stream of spittle on a steel shield with cuneiform etchings, and briskly wiped it dry to a brilliant shine. Who smells a lovely-looking shield before buying it? :)

As for the apple seller, he picked some apples and forced four or five each into two clear bags and advanced with menace onto the street. He was as muscular as an ox and, as I frantically rolled up my windows, I got to wondering if he also picked the apples from the trees himself :)

I realised how after their sun-baked day spent setting up grocery shops, furniture showrooms, pet shops, car washes and deodorising permanently in dried perspiration on the streets of Accra, these cellar citizens must have a normal life. A life picking apples, bathing children with water and, maybe, a little spittle to shine behind their ears, watching TV, even if just for the pictures, or simply eating with their mouths closed so particles do not spurt into the evening air. They do not live where they stand to sell. A whole wild world out there, totally worth exploring.

Friday, April 4, 2008

Nana Abu

This was my grandfather’s birthday ... until fifteen years ago. In 1993, he stood still at a cliff of the highest peak of his life, spread out his wizened wings and, without a chance to look back, he flapped and flapped and flapped, and flopped! Gone forever! His birthday became a morbid memento of (when I think of it) my first true best friend. Nuhu Bin Abubekr died aged eighty-four. He called me “Senior Brother”, and I miss him very much. He had wanted to live a few more years to enjoy the adult me.

Before I happened on the scene, Nana Abu had proudly boasted a strapping political life. Not quite swashbuckling, but still a great strike for the home team (whatever it was). He went to the great Mfantsipim School, and graduated on a certificate named for Cambridge. A life that had struck a sparkling light and shone was flogged by fickle factors. From then on, every rich strand of history he knew, and every brilliant strategy skirmished on his political précis was learned and earned by single, silent assimilation. He was a “wicked” registrar of the Adansi Traditional Council, which had some powers of a court.

He was already sixty-eight when I came along; robbed and roughly ravaged by the cruel and coldblooded timekeeper. But he was still very tall and elegant; ramrod straight with a very handsome face. He taught me how wrong and insular the Ghanaian saying “I’m sure” was, for the benighted Ghanaian was really saying “I think”, “I believe” :)

Nana Abu died sitting upright on a rainy June morning in a Kumasi hospital :). I did not break down and cry when I heard the terrible news, for the great man had gone out smiling, fighting and refusing to lie down.

Happy birthday, Nana Abu. Writing this suddenly makes me feel so very lonely.

Thursday, April 3, 2008

The Rain, Art and Figures in the Clouds

In the city of Accra, the cold and wet weather slows the people down! In the city of Accra, the hot and humid weather slows the people down! What kind of weather is Accra city looking for?

When we were little children, and Accra was greener and smaller and cooler, my siblings and I loved the rainy season.

It was not just for the reckless chance to play in the cold darts falling aplenty and, in no time, pricking our tightening skin with tiny sharp needles. The lovely rich rainbows were free and frequent. And the rain clouds flaunted a tapestry of bright, luxuriant colours. The fibrous white threads of lightning were at once frightening and exciting; the booming thunderclap was only terrifying.

The pitter-patter of the raindrops on the asbestos roofing sheets, eddying between rhythmic sharp and lulling hum, was, and still is, an eerie experience. The first few drops, on splattering against the ground, raised the distinct sweet smell of white clay and wet dust, and made you want to cup the cold, muddy soil in the cone of your little hands and give it delightful, long licks (why can't somebody invent ice cream in that fragrant flavour?) Frankie's, are you reading? :)

But the greatest gift of the season was changing the ordinary ice blue sky into a master artist’s canvas. We would stand outdoors for very long hours allowing our imagination to run with the wind. We saw shapes, figures, effigies straight out of our fairy tales and everyday life.

Jesus Christ’s profile was everybody’s favourite – the picture of him in children’s books, long hair, angular chin and aquiline nose. Then, there was Jerry Rawlings, president at the time. We also saw the animals, lots of them – eagles, ponies, great lizards, elephants and humble rodents. A mythical creature would sail along every now and then – unicorns, Pegasus, dragons. But my favourite little moment, tucked away in my memory, was when my very little sister swore that she'd espied a mean and massive dinosaur. It is a tearful moment for me to think back to that time.

Now, I only look for the clouds to tell me if the rain will come, the thickness of the homeward traffic and if the “weather will bring herself” when I arrive home or at a friends house (a complete topic in itself, to be explored at a later date).

Wednesday, April 2, 2008

Beach Road on Wednesday Morning

It’s neck-and-neck in awe-inspiration with Spintex Road's delightful melee of fancy shops and devastating-girls-at-the-roadside. It was a glorious sunny drive from Teshie to Tema (not exactly Accra). The sea was brilliant and royal blue-er than the sky :)

The sea side of the road is lined with thin woods of trees, which soon give way to the bare and endless strip of red earth. The unforgettable essence of this particular stretch of sea carries with the drive from here on: a wet-mop, wet-dog kind of whiff.

The road soon begins to buckle and bump as if the sea were crawling under it. Wooden and concrete benches appear in the striking terracotta. And fish girls! Selling fat and curvy fish on askew tabletops. I’m ogling one from the corner of my driving eye. She’s frantically slaughtering the fish with a heavy butcher’s knife, as a gust of wind mistakes her dress and apron for a kite; makes me notice her satellite-dish hips and helium backside :)

The marvel ends with the man-made bank of black and grey granite (?)boulders. Here, the sea sings and lilts, and splashes against them in cheerful celebration.Of what? Fish? Women?

The left-hand side also begins with the same flimsy woods on either side of a revamped rail line (I have never seen a train whizz past). Then you drive by a vast and grassy marshland, part solid-enough-to-tread, part nearly-clear lagoon. In the far-off distance stands alone a two-storey shed. It’s built with both bamboo and strong wood – favourite haunt for a thousand white birds, and I’ve explored it by the inch.

If you brave a little muck, itchy grass and a bonnet of bothersome bugs, you will find upstairs, carved gracefully on a beam, “Sweet Kelly”. At that secluded spot, my flighty mind is not alone in wondering what Kelly was so kind to do as to make her a syrupy immortal. My own merely mortal mind is seduced with unbelief at the Robinson Kwame Crusoe who built this use-less monument, in the middle of nowhere, to lure Sweet Kelly.

The marsh makes way for the sprawling flats, Tema-side. For such a jewel of a road, why does it want a proper name? Or does anybody know it?

Tuesday, April 1, 2008

Four Reasons Why Accra is Different!

In Accra, the roads come first. Then we dig deep trenches right across. First, for the fine design, and also to lay cables and pipes. When, finally, we pack up and leave, we have a test track for steeplechase :)

In Accra, we sink gutters and will not cover them. Where would we hide the filth of three million people with all these gutters sealed? Rubbish!

In Accra, we spring ten floors and leave only enough space to park a bird and two tricycles. But just as we divine four lanes out of two, so can we create our own car parks too.

In Accra, we build our glittering homes in the dirty, muddy marsh. Our 212-fahrenheit faith in God (which others so clearly covet) will hold it up when the devil's deluge comes crashing down in jealous June.